With great power comes great responsibility. So I’ve learned from the very wise and world-weary Uncle Ben Parker. You may not know Uncle Ben, but he is primarily responsible for the moral development of Spider-Man. Funny that I should learn lessons from fictional characters. Comic book characters, no less.

But he was a father. Not in the biological sense, but in the nurturing sense. A father whose primary responsibility was to shape and guide the future of a young child. And that he did, in all his ink and paint glory, until his untimely death.

I suppose you’re trying to figure out what I’m talking about, huh? It’s the concept of fatherhood and where it comes from. What does it mean to be a father?

I’m the father of two lovely, wonderful girls. One biologically, one in the nurturing sense. But I’m a father nonetheless. My primary role is to shape and guide these two children into good human beings. I often lay awake at night wondering what my girls will be when they grow up. Their futures are boundless. They can be singers, dancers, scientists, doctors, actors, writers, artists, accountants, astronauts or carnies. As long as they stay out of prison I don’t think I would love them anymore if they scrubbed deep fryers for a living or if they discovered a new law of the physical world. As long as they take pride in their work and are happy, I’m happy.

As a father, I want to be present for every moment. Every moment of glory and pain, for they come in equal doses, though sometimes the pain seems to outweigh the glory.

I often wonder if I am alone in this outlook. Every morning I wait at the bus stop with Matilda. I’ve done so since the first day she went to kindergarten and hope to do so with Gertrude and any of their subsequent siblings. The first concept a child usually learns is “bye bye”. We’re forever saying goodbye to people and I want to instill in them that most goodbyes are only fleeting. That they only last for a short period of time. Don’t fear the goodbyes, but rejoice in the embraces.

But I look at the bus stop and see so many children who are shuffled off into their days alone. Most of the time, it’s no big deal to them. They are happy to run and play with their friends. But sometimes, something happens. And where do they turn if their parent isn’t within reach? Is it not our jobs to help explain to them that, sometimes, the universe bites back?

Ever since Matilda was in kindergarten, the neighborhood children, and usually the bullies, come to me for guidance in these situations. And increasingly so.

It started with explaining to a group of nascent ruffians why they shouldn’t throw rocks at passing cars. Now, in your adult mind it makes perfect sense to you NOT to do this. But children, in their often wonderful and sometimes dangerous curiosity, have to find out for themselves what the consequences are. They just have to know what will happen if they hit a Honda Accord with a rock.

Unfortunately, this practice can hurt someone. And the kids understood this after a nice talk. These morning discourses continued over the course of a year. Don’t put rocks under people’s tires, don’t knock on people’s doors or play on their porch, don’t hit each other with sticks. Again, common sense to us, but not to a kid.

Slowly but surely, these kids saw that they could trust me. And they started coming to me to solve their morning problems. Broken parts of assignments that are due that morning are routinely fixed on my kitchen table with whatever materials we have on hand. Collections of things that are brought for show and tell are often touted on my doorstep. I’m introduced to relatives, and I often stave off tears of lonely kids seeking their parents.

Increasingly, moments of fate crashing down upon a young child’s psyche are causing my doorbell to ring before the bus comes. So and so called me a name. This kid kicked me. That one stole my backpack. No one likes me.

We have the safe house. All the kids at the bus stop know me and can call me by name. I say hello to fourteen kids separately every morning and sometimes explain things like stars and space travel to an interested fourth grader as we all stand stomping our feet in the cold.

I’ve played rock, paper, and scissors with most of the first graders and have protected more than my fair share of misfits from ridicule. And, more than once, I’ve heard tidbits of my own wisdom about name-calling and bullying shot back at the perpetrators of the pain.

I dispense band-aids, ice and advice at the bus stop. I’m friend to all and trusted by everyone.

It’s because of my wife that I’ve realized that I’m a surrogate father to many of these kids. Outside of the bus stop, I don’t know much about them. For all I know, they could have a great family at home. Or their dad could be an alcoholic. Or they could live with their grandparents. I just don’t know. Not that it matters.

But it’s a staggering thought when you open the door to realize that the neighborhood depends upon you to be there, just in case they need you. For twenty minutes a day I inherit an extra twenty kids. It’s an awesome responsibility, but a welcome one.

Fathers just do things, without being asked. You want a piano? We’ll get you one. Puppies appear as if by will and we make great horses. We can explain physics and art. It’s just some of the things that dads know. And when you need us, we’re there.

Whether or not you’re our kid, we’re there to pick you up and help you brush off and set you out on your way.

Maybe someday I’ll meet these kids’ parents. Maybe not. But hopefully, when they are in the same position, they’ll do the same thing.